Just so ya know, I don't believe in the Jungian concept of synchronicity--the acausal occurrence of disparate but somehow related events (to simplify)--but today I had an experience that a believer could certainly point to as a good example.

In the midst of composing a guest post on the concept of Literary Horror, I half-recalled a quote from Moby-Dick, or, The Whale that would serve as the perfect opening.

I knew the passage I had in mind contained the word "knowledge," so I opened Melville's classic on my Kindle and searched, easily found it:

“Oh, life! 'tis in an hour like this, with soul beat down and held to knowledge,— as wild, untutored things are forced to feed—Oh, life! 'tis now that I do feel the latent horror in thee!”

(God, even reading these lines for the 108th time, I find the words so powerful, psychologically visceral.)

Adding the quote to the essay, I finish my draft.

Then I bethink myself to pick up my much-loved hardcopy of the book (I do this often; Moby-Dick is so Chock Full'O gorgeous and numinous utterance, that when I'm not feeling like writing, all I need is to read snatches of it to get excited about words again).

Opening it to any old page, I began reading at random. My eyes immediately fell on the above quotation.

When I'd wanted those words, I had to seek them out; now they came looking for me . . . I got one of those fantastic chills only lovers of reading understand.

(Nota Bene: It's not like the book's spine had been creased such that it had a greater probability of yawning to that passage-- I've always handled this specific copy carefully and flipped the leaves with a democratic attitude that would make Walt Whitman proud).

Okay, so that was a nice little coinicidence, right? Cool. After ingesting a few more amazing pages, I put the book down and walk into the kitchen. I notice the calendar hanging on the door is still on July.

But today is August 12th.

I approach the calendar with inexplicable caution, like it's a magic book that contains an entire year within scant pages. My 2018 calendar depicts old botanical and biological prints. July features six colorful seashells from an Italian folio of 1681.

August, I'm surprised to find, shows me this:​

So it's not a sperm whale-- but still, isn't that odd, given what had just happened with the quotation? That for no reason I can discern, I'd waited until a day in the month of August when I would be focusing on Moby-Dick, to realize I need to put my door-calendar into synchronicity with objective time-- only to find a whale and a picture of a 19th century ship?

(The whale, incidentally, is from a German book of 1828; the ship is an 1890 Currier & Ives print.)

Then I start to wonder if I've entered some weird dimension where my Erik-T.-Johnson thoughts are interweaving with Moby-Dick. Ridiculous but I can't help it-- I write fantastic and terrible stuff (take that any way you like).